


Here Endeth the Lesson

by orphan_account



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Horror, Other, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-07
Updated: 2004-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:03:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: A possible reason for the change in Spike's demeanour between 1880 and 1894. Torture is a theme.<br/>Rating: R<br/>Author Notes: Written for the livejournal summer_of_spike celebration. Thanks to blueswan9 for the super-fast beta. Any feedback would be cherished, if you felt like it.<br/>Story Notes: There's no swearing or anything but I rated this R because my beta was disturbed by it (nancy).<br/>Disclaimer: Not mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Endeth the Lesson

Cold, never thought he could be cold again but stripped naked and shivering and the hard, thick, pig-rind feeling of his skin is convincing him. Cowering, never thought he would cower again but here he is crouching; head down, arms hugging knees, packing himself up into the smallest space he can and rocking; rocking to the breathe in breathe out. Doesn't need to breathe but he can't let go of it. It paces out the time and connects one moment to the next; time passing, clock ticking, seconds dripping one into the next into the next.

Driving spikes through heads. Making sculptures from babies arms holding each other. Piling them up to make his Drusilla's dancing reflection. Pulling her onto his lap and waiting for the little hands to grip stiff with rigor mortis. Drying her eyes when they unclasped and fell into messes. Drusilla, his Drusilla.

It's dark, it's black night and Sire shines out gleaming clean and luminescent. He throws small words at him; small like boy, stupid, dark. Small words, scattered carelessly, but he gathers them up and keeps them safe. There are so few words spoken that he thinks he will go mad from the want of sounds that make sense; sounds that speak to his head and not his body. Everything else is all reaction. When the birds sing it is morning and when the door creaks it is mealtime and it is all physical and his mind rots from the starvation.

Stringing up fleshy dolls for her to play with and bringing her china cups of blood. Tearing up their dresses and making new skin coats for them. Setting up the tea party and waiting for that high mad giggle to burst from her. Chanting her stories and little rhymes and mixing them up with past lies and future truth and all on show for him to see, flickering in candlelight.

Physical, he has exchanged metaphorical chains for physical ones and isn't it supposed to be the other way round? Walking in the half-lit world but there's no light here, just black and the more he stares the blacker it gets and shadows quiver into faces and forms fly at him and he knows it is all in his mind but what else is there but that, and the cold. Boy, his name is boy now; he thought it was Spike but then he thought a lot of things and he was stupid.

Swinging punches and taking beatings, giving as good as he got, or better. Right in the thick of it and whooping out berserker gleeful. In the rain, and eyes catching moonlight shining down praise on him as he smashes in faces and rips open chests.

There is chilled stone around him, rough, unfinished, and he cannot quite touch each wall if he stands in the middle of the room. It could be a cellar; it could be a tower. He cannot remember coming here, only being here. He has always been here he thinks; now he thinks he has always been here. He has to find the way out but there is no way out for him. He has to be different; he has to change. Take new form and slip out of this cage made to trap William.

Yelling, running round, jumping over bodies and tossing them aside, sweeping up his girl and crowing over the fallen. So much power and he roars his name and hears her echo it, and they are glorious together and eternal.

Sire slams in and out. It is always sudden when he appears, but not loud. Silken voice slides into the dark spaces and twists old pain into new horror. Doing well now boy? Learning something? Chains tight enough? He gets a break from the dark, a tiny pinhole pierced through the wall but the light is burning sun and he scuffles-skitters away and Sire only laughs. Trying to remember a time when he wasn't boy and Sire wasn't Sire but it's fading, murky, deep memories of rebellion. Dives down into them and holds on tight but the firmer he grips them the more his chains choke and Sire cuts with a knife, with a blade, with glass, with his nail pushing down hard so it slices.

Throwing down dinner on the table and sawing through it as it screamed. Circling his arms round his princess and playing happy families.

They play the games and he always loses because he is stupid and can never remember the rules. Play horsey, play tag, play catch, play piggy in the middle but he can't move too well any more and Sire flashes about him, swift movements and assured. Loser pays, loser pays up and Sire always wins and he has to pay his forfeit. More time, more time here, but time has slipped away and all that is left is moments of Sire, shining, bold and strong and he loves him for the power and the glory are his, now and forever, amen.


End file.
